Love is strength Love is family
by OutlawQueenLuvr
Summary: There's a saying "blood is thicker than water," but Regina, Robin and their children know that family is choice-love is a choice-and they'll fight like hell to protect it.
1. Chapter 1

Milestones  
 _Cherish the Peanut Week | Day One_

When Robin's sweet little girl is four and a half months old, her first tooth comes in. She's annoyed by it, spends hours gumming frozen teething toys like they're candy to sooth her aching gums. She sucks on his fingers, on her stuffed bunny's ears, and even on this little rubber nipple thing Regina rubs chamomile tincture on, drooling so much Robin swears he could fill a bucket with spit.

She's five months old when her dreaded first cold hits. They've just gotten her to sleep and feed regularly, finally had some semblance of normalcy, when her hiccoughing cry over the monitor wakes Regina and Robin from a dead sleep. They're up for hours–everyone exhausted–fretting over Vi, making her formula so they can try and get her to eat, checking her temperature, rocking her, reading her stories. They even suction out her little nose so she can properly breathe. With Regina's assurance, Robin knows they've nothing to worry about, it's just a cold, but he worries nonetheless.

She's 10-months old when she takes her first step. A feat that fills their household with laughter and joy. She'd been trying to walk for weeks, would smile, and giggle, and stand on shaky, pudgy legs while holding onto his hands, but she'd fall on her bum whenever she'd let go. That Tuesday is different. That Tuesday she walks from him to Regina, and they both beam with tears in their eyes.

His daughter has lots of firsts–first skinned knee, first word (it was mama, and then dadda, and then p'ease), first of many tantrums, first day of kindergarten, but none puff Robin up as much as today.

Today, he's teaching his precious peanut how to ride her first bike.

"Alright, my darling." Robin encourages Vi to peddle, supporting her with two hands, one at her back and the other holding firmly onto the edge of her seat. "I won't let go, not yet."

"P'omise?" Vi asks, putting her right foot on the pedal and craning her head to stare back and up at him.

"I promise." He kisses the top of her helmet and whispers, "Not until you're ready."

"And mama's right here, if you need me, sweetheart." Regina encourages, her arms outstretched several feet away.

Vi nods and Robin puts the kick-stand up one more time so he can check her helmet. "How do I go?" she asks.

"Just like with your training wheels, a little bit of speed and look straight ahead," he says, tucking a few of her strawberry blonde curls behind her ear and fixing the strap under her chin. She looks looks up at him, and he chuckles.

"Silly goose," he bops her cute freckled-nose. "Don't look at me, look that way." He points toward Regina.

"Vi, Look at me. Look at Mama," she says, taking a few more steps back and waving her hand.

"Head up. We'll get you up over this gravel part here." Robin helps guide her, his hand supporting her balance again (she doesn't need it, he thinks; she can do this). "And then we'll go."

"Ok, Daddy." She peddles a little faster, and Robin jogs at a slow pace.

"You sure?"

"Yup. Ready."

"Alright, you can do this."

"Yup."

Robin grins. Cheeky little thing. She sounds so certain, so confident, and he expects nothing less. She is after all her mother's daughter. Vi takes after Regina in so many ways–has her spirit, her stubbornness, her heart–and for that he's so very thankful. They've raised a smart, sweet, kind little girl. One he can't imagine his life without.

"Daddy, you didn't let go."

Busted.

"Alright, alright. Here we go for real."

She wobbles a little at first, her hands jerking to the side as she momentarily loses her balance, but she catches herself, finds that perfect middle, and keeps going. One foot forward, then another, and another until Robin thinks she's got it. She's really, really got it.

She's half way between him and Regina when she shouts, "I'm doing it! I'm doing it!"

"You are, my darling!" His heart swells, his feet beat against the ground as he jogs faster behind her, coughing a little at the dust she's kicking up.

"Almost here, sweetheart!" Regina shouts, smiling from ear to ear, her eyes watering.

For a moment, time slows down, and Robin sees so many more firsts in front of them. It starts with riding a bike, but soon their little Viola Marie is going to be driving (gods save him), boys will be lining up to steal her heart (he'll shoot them in the foot with an arrow if any of them hurt her. Maybe it'll be a girl who steals her heart–doesn't matter, they'll get an arrow to the foot as well if they break his daughter's heart), and she'll be moved out of the house before they know it. Her own roof over her head. Robin sniffles, his vision blurs, and then he hears Regina shouting.

"You did it, Viola! You did it!" Regina steadies Vi's bike and helps her down. She can get down on her own now, but Robin's sure Regina's just as impatient to hug their little girl just as much as he is.

He runs to them, cheers excitedly, and just before he's there, Vi turns. "Daddy, I did it, I did it!"

"You did, my darling!" He scoops her up and throws her in the air. She squeals, laughs, and it's one of the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard.

She did it. She rode her bike for the first time, by herself, and damn, he is proud. Gods, he's so proud of her, his little peanut.

He loves all the firsts, every waking moment of them, and on wonderful days like today where the sun is shining, spring blooms are blossoming, and his daughter and the love of his life are sharing in his merriment, well, it reminds him to enjoy the now, to live in the present. There are unknowns, sure, but he and Regina will face them as they always do–together.

These are wonderful days, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Daddy's Girl  
 _Cherish the Peanut Week | Day Two_

The air is balmy and sweet with the first blooms of autumn. The sky is clear, leaves just beginning to rustle on their limbs as wind teasingly blows through the trees.

It's been hot all summer, a heat wave unlike any Storybrooke has ever experienced weighing heavy upon the small town in Maine. Robin has hated the heat, the slick stickiness of sweat clinging to his back, and the blazing sun reflecting off black asphalt. It makes him miss the cool shade of the forest, the familiar scent of pine and earth, camping beneath the canopy in Sherwood. It makes him miss mornings spent roasting breakfast while Roland had still been sleeping, or nights spent in front of a campfire with the stars twinkling overhead.

His life is filled with new things now, yawning his mornings over french roast and slumbering children on the edges of sleep, or silently cursing after stepping barefoot on little lego pieces in Roland's room. He spends nights tossing Vi's diapers and onesies into the washer, helping Henry with his homework when he can (in many ways, Robin's learning about arithmetic and this land's history just as much as the young lad).

He used to wash simple cloths in the river when Roland was a baby, swaddle his son in a warm blanket, feed him goat's milk from a canvas flask. Now there are bottles, and infant sunscreen, and bibs, and wipes, and everything else Regina could possibly think a baby would need while away from home base (even these little rubber things that look like a nipple–this world still confuses him at times).

And he loves it, loves all of it–setting up camping tours for local clubs and groups for warmer weekends, spending time with his family, time with Regina, watching their children grow together.

They're his life; his vision blurs, his heart swells when he looks at them.

But the summer, the summer in Maine is balmy, hot, and his new sworn enemy. Or right now it is, with the air conditioning unit broken, and the repairman taking far too long to fix it, and Roland whining that he's hot (Regina points out that they're all hot), and Vi crying something fierce.

Hot and miserable, his family, and annoying each other in such close quarters, which is odd to him because there've been times where he and Regina have been able to sneak off to their bedroom to enjoy each other–Vi down for a nap, Roland and Henry playing in the backyard. The house had seemed big then. Now? Now it seems small with everyone gathered in the living room, Regina laying on the couch with her book covering her face, Roland sprawled out on the carpet surrounded by his toys like they were a halo, Henry sitting in the sofa chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands propping up his head, looking bored to death.

And then there's him, bouncing a crying Vi on his hip, wiping away her crocodile tears.

Hot and miserable, indeed.

"Regina, I'm hottttt," Roland whines again, bunching up his Captain America shirt beneath his armpits and picking at his belly button.

"We're all hot, Roland." She tosses her book onto the coffee table, winces at the sound it makes on impact. It skids across wood, falling over the edge onto the floor. Robin watches her stare at it, but she doesn't move to get it. Just closes her eyes again, gathers her hair onto the top of her head, let's it go, and breathes.

Her headache must be much worse than he thought. She's been pinching the bridge of her nose all morning, visibly wincing at loud noises, her mood souring by the minute, and he doesn't blame her.

This is the pits, and Vi's heart-wrenching cries aren't helping.

His precious little girl had come fast and unexpectedly into the world. Without warning, without time to prepare, she'd been in his life, filling his battered heart with warmth like golden honey. He'd cradled her, cupped his hand beneath her head, and stared in awe with blurred vision.

Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes.

She'd been just like Roland. New, and small, and all at once soothing beyond measure, healing fissures inside him he'd thought cracked open and exposed for good.

She'd healed him; she'd made him whole–his Viola Marie Locksley. His little peanut.

Robin kisses the crown of her head and wishes he could do what she did for him, wishes he could soothe, and comfort, and make his little girl feel better.

God, he hates this heat.

And then Henry abruptly sits up straight, looks at Robin and his mom, and says, "Why don't we go to the lake?"

Oh, well, isn't that a great idea?

Regina stays home, strips down to her knickers and slips on a thin camisole while Robin turns down their sheets. She pops two Imitrex and crawls into bed, and he leaves her with a chaste kiss on the lips and a full glass of water on the nightstand.

Robin, the boys, and Vi are packed up and to the lake in less than 20 minutes, which is a feat entirely of itself between the carseats, and seatbelts, and the diaper bag, and snacks, and waters, and the other million things he needs to do to get himself and the kids all ready to go.

Thank the gods for Henry, in more ways than one (going to the lake was a splendid idea for a hot summer's day).

The boys are out of the car before he can shout, "Don't forget the sunscreen!"

Regina will absolutely murder him if anyone comes home burnt, and he'd really like to not aggravate her migraine. Robin unbuckles Vi from her carseat, scooping her out and shushing her as she starts to whimper.

"There, there, my darling," he croones, patting her back and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He kisses the crown of her head. Breathes, slowly sways his hips. "Daddy's got you. There, there, now."

He breathes again (there's just something about the way that newborn babies smell that's positively delightful), hums _Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green_ while tugging Vi's diaper bag out of the car and sliding the door shut behind him. She's calm, curious by the time he gets her to the water's edge, but he keeps humming anyway.

 _When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen_

 _Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?_

He sets the bag on a rocky surface in eyesight from shore, and helps Vi out of her t-shirt and shorts, checking her swim diaper one last time before getting out of the heat and into the cool water. Henry and Roland are already splashing in it, kicking and screaming as they spit water at each other like typical boys. He loves how well they've gotten on, how much they enjoy playing with each other, reading books together, or rather Henry reading books to Roland.

Regina and he had worried a bit (quite a lot, actually) in the beginning, with all the sudden changes. Between Vi's unexpected birth date, their journey to the Underworld, and Roland and Vi staying with the fairies until they could return, there's been a lot of upheaval, a lot of change. Things that Robin knows affect children when they're so young, so impressionable, and he hopes to the gods they haven't scarred their youngest for life.

They seem fine, he thinks, while wading into the lake. The water's cool against his skin, instant relief from the unrelenting heat. Vi smooshes her face into his chest, gurgles, and then pats her tiny hand against his chest. She's not really paying attention to the water yet, is too entranced by the hairs on his chest. He laughs at his sweetpea, cradles her head but keeps walking further from the shore until the water reaches just above his waistline.

Henry and Roland laugh, and their glee catches Vi's attention. "What're your brothers doing, my darling?" Robin rubs her back, pressing a kiss to the top of the tiny blue hat on her head.

She tries to pick up her head, her neck muscles still not strong enough, but she's trying, and he loves her for it. Loves every bit of her, so much so his heart feels like it physically swells. Or it could just be his new sappy disposition.

He's been like this ever since they returned from the Underworld, since he saw his children again, held them in his arms, squeezed them tight and promised he'd never go again (a promise he knows he can't very well keep; they don't know what the future holds). This happens now–his heart feeling overwhelmed and his tear ducts following suit–at the most inane of moments. While Roland had sounded out words in one of his bedtime stories to Regina, when Henry had shown him plans for a tree house he wanted them to build together, or the way Regina had smiled at him as they rose before the sun this morning.

They all fill him with such joy, such overwhelming love and appreciation for the life they have together.

But it's his daughter, lately, who's given him so many things to smile about, made his eyes prick with tears, and captured the heart of everyone who has met her.

Yes, he's quite in awe, he thinks, taking a few more steps forward. The bottoms of Vi's feet touch the water. She shrieks; her eyes go wide.

"Is it too cold?" he asks, cupping some water into his hand and lightly splashing it on her legs. She doesn't appear to like it at first, nuzzles her face into his chest again, tiny fingers gripping his chest hair. He hisses. "Ah ah ah, my darling. That hurts Daddy," he says, loosening her grip on him and bouncing her in his hold.

He kisses her brow, again, always again (he can't get enough of that sweet New Baby Smell and her gentle lavender shampoo), and then shows her with his open hand, "Look, Vi," he swishes the water in front of them, "see, it's fun."

"Yeah, Vi, it's fun!" Roland says, swimming over with Henry. His floaties make him a little slow, but he swims as hard and fast as he can all the same. Henry just a foot or two behind him, pretending he can't keep up. Good kid, Robin chuckles.

"Does she like the lake?" Henry asks, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"She's not sure of it yet," Robin says, and she's drawn to the sound of his voice, turns to look up at him. "There's my girl." He splashes a little more water on her legs, makes a face at her, and she giggles. Spit bubbles pop on her lip as her tongue peeks out, so Robin sticks his out in kind.

His sweet girl giggles again, so he sticks his tongue out a second time, and Roland and Henry both join in (what a motley crew they make), and Vi _loves_ it, is positively overjoyed, kicks, and kicks, and kicks her feet, water splashing all around them.

Robin spends another 45 minutes playing in the lake with the kids, eventually taking Vi back to the shore, wrapping her up in a towel and hugging her close to him. She falls asleep as he hums, _'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so._

They pack up as the sun starts to dip behind the tree line and Roland's teeth begin to chatter.

They arrive home quarter passed 5PM. Four very happy, tired, sunburned people.

Well, save for Vi.

Mommy put sunscreen on her before they all left.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Major character death. Okay y'all. This is something I started writing last week, something I needed to get out, a way for me to work through my own grief. This might be one of the most honest things I've written. This one shot is about what happens when someone you love dies, and the different ways we grieve._

:.:

Even when she is not | Mother Knows Best  
 _Cherish the Peanut Week | Day Three_

She hates today, hates this week, really just hates this month in general; this month can go die in a fire. Maybe she'll start the fire, maybe she'll burn the whole town to the ground, and everyone who asks her if she's alright, if she's okay, who tries to offer support and encouragement with cards and quotes that just. don't. get. it.

She's curled up in bed with the covers over her head, her face pressed into Mom's pillow, which is silly, she knows it's silly; she can't breathe like this. But it's Mom's pillow, her side of the bed. She turns beneath the covers, pushes her tangled curls out of her face, and pulls down the blanket just enough to breathe. Just a little. Fresh air hitting her lungs like a shot of caffeine.

She breathes, burrows back beneath the sheets and presses her cheek to Mom's pillow. A quiet sob wracks her body; she sniffles.

Mom slept with dried lavender tucked between her pillowcase and pillow. She loved the way it smelled, the freshness of it, the way it soothed and eased her into slumber while Mom combed her fingers through her hair, rubbed her back, and told her everything was going to be okay.

She misses that, misses Mom–the way Mom's hair smelled whenever she hugged her really close after school, the way Mom laughed at one of her stupid jokes (Vi knows they were never really that funny), the way Mom made bear-shaped chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings just because she knew they were Vi's favorite.

Mom used to cut apples in this crisscross pattern so the fruit looked like a flower before you started eating it. It took forever–or what seemed like forever to a five-year-old–for her to make the blooms, and when Vi asked her once why she didn't just cut it up so we could eat it, Mom told her: _"There's beauty in the small things."_

There's pain in them, too, in the grief that comes when Vi starts to forget the small things. It's hard forgetting, hard trying to pull them back to, too, hard to get people to understand how she feels when she just wants to be left alone. Vi and Dad have a deal. She gets today, gets to hide beneath the covers for as long as she wants, and that's usually all it takes.

They all grieve in their own way.

Today it's different. Today she's graduating from high school in a few hours, and she really, really doesn't want to. She doesn't want to think about putting on her cap and gown, doesn't want to walk up to the podium to accept her diploma. But most of all…

She doesn't want to look out into the crowd and not see her face.

She misses Mom.

And it's not fair, this isn't fair. She wasn't ready. How could she ever be ready for this? Mom was invincible. A hero. Things weren't supposed to be like this.

She's mad, so so angry at everyone–at Auntie M for always being so dang positive (sometimes things just suck, y'know? No matter how hard you try to sugar coat it.), at but most of all, she sobs a little harder, hot tears gathering at the bridge of her nose and splashing onto the pillow, most of all, she's mad at Mom.

Vi clings tighter to the yellow envelope in her left hand. She's mad at mom, and this stupid card (her favorite card) and its perfect faded, black-inked penmanship on the front: My dearest Viola.

Her phone buzzes in the back pocket of her jeans, and she reaches back to get it, swipes the screen. It's a text from Dad: _Milk and brownies? 3 3 3_

Vi laughs, and it's watery and snot-filled. Ever since Roland showed Dad how to send emojis, he's sort of been over doing it.

 _Yeah_ , she texts back; she thinks she's ready to come out now, can hear mom's voice in her head, _Sometimes you just need a good cry._ Her heart pangs in her chest, and she wipes tears from her eyes.

There's a knock at the door, and Dad peeks his head in just as she pushes the covers down, carrying a glass of milk and a plate of brownies. He sets them on the nightstand.

"Scoot over, Peanut." He urges, tapping her thigh and scooting in next to her on the bed. They settle in together, she rests her head on Dad's chest, and he rubs her back, up and down, up and down–the ache in her heart becoming less with each soothing pass.

After a few minutes where they just sit together, Vi points to the card on the bedspread next to her and asks, "Do you know what she said?"

"No, sweetheart. Those words were just for you." Dad brushes her curls away from her face, tucking them behind her ear, and then he says, "We don't have to go today, we can stay here. Everyone will understand."

She knows he means that. But it's Dad. It's their family. There's always a _but_.

"Where's the but?" she asks, picking at one of the buttons of his shirt, circling the edges of it with her finger.

He chuckles softly, kisses the crown of her head, and lifts her chin up to look at him. "I think you should go. Mom would be proud of you, Vi. She–" his voice cracks. "We're here, I'm here if you need me. You won't be alone."

That knocks something loose in her chest; tears well up again. She swallows, whispers, "Even though I'm not there physically. I'll always be with you, sweetheart," and turns her face to bury it in Dad's chest. He hugs her tighter, her hot tears staining his shirt.

"What?" he asks, sniffling now, too.

"It's what Mom said. In the card."

Her mom knew she wasn't going to make it, knew this was a fight she wasn't going to win, and there are days that makes Vi so angry. Makes her want to scream because Mom did what she did despite knowing she wasn't going to make it. On other days, well, on other days it's hard for her to put words to what she feels.

Mom was always the bravest of them, the most resilient of their family, and when she fought to save the people she loved, when she stood up to those who'd hurt her family, that's usually when her magic shined the brightest–a brilliant silvery force to be reckoned with.

But the thing about light is that there's always someone who wants to snuff it out, always someone who can't see beauty for what it really is, and her mom was so beautiful. In every way.

"She's right, y'know. She always will be." Dad says, his voice thick with emotion. "It's okay to miss her." Vi avoids looking up at him, just listens to the sound of his voice, feels him speak with her ear pressed to his chest. "I miss– I miss your mom– every day. But Henry, you, even Roland, you all remind me so much of her. In the ways you treat others, in how smart you are in school, in your stubbornness," Dad gives her a squeeze; she nudges him in the chest. "As long as we remember her–

The tears she's been holding back break free like a dam that has cracked wide open.

"Vi, what is it?"

"I'm for–orgetting things," she cries, taking a few shuddering breaths.

"Oh my darling, what kinds of things?" He starts combing his fingers through her curls.

"What she smelled like."

Dad's quiet for a moment, fingers never ceasing to detangle a few of her curls, then he clears his throat (she can feel him swallow and take a deep breath). "Your mom… she used to wear this perfume called Indigo, and it was lovely, and her, and I tried looking for a bottle once. She was always much more adept as using the Internet than me. But on afternoons she spent baking with Henry, she smelled like apple turnovers, warm and sweet. And for the longest time, whenever she'd play with Roland, she smelled like playdough and sugar cookies. But on evenings she'd spend rocking you to sleep, she smelled like lavender and baby powered. Your mom, she always smelled like home to me."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Vi snuggles closer.

"Like Mom said in the card, right?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. As long as we live, she'll always be right here." He pats over his heart, and then hers.

The thing about grief and healing is that you start to forget. It's the little things, like the way someone smells, something that's completely them, or the way they look when they smile. But this, Viola will never forget this.

Her mom will always be with her.

Even when she's not.


End file.
